


It's not what I gave up, it's what I fought to gain

by happyg_rl



Category: Queen Sugar (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childbirth, Drug Use, F/M, Fallen Angels, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 09:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyg_rl/pseuds/happyg_rl
Summary: Memories are just tricks we play on ourselves.What is easier to remember, to forget? Happiness, betrayal, sorrow, promises?





	It's not what I gave up, it's what I fought to gain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kwritten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/gifts).



> A product borne from clytemnestras's [free-for-all ficathon](https://clockwork-hart1.livejournal.com/33943.html) on LJ, where we like to hurt each other. Usually with the bible. 
> 
> For kwritten's prompt: Ralph Angel/Darla, fallen angels AU "To fall would be an awfully big adventure"
> 
> (But believe you me this is not a cutesy Peter Pan parody)

It’s easier to remember the light, sometimes. 

 

Dancing, singing, jumping _flying_. Magnificent halls made of shimmering light or clouds or brass. A thousand thousand smiling faces bursting with joy and laughter and innocence. Honey sweet music that dripped down from above and pooled in your ears and memories. Light. Brilliant, warm, ever-present, all-encompassing light.

Here is where they became. Among the endless, opulent, expanse of dreams and wishes and imagination. They wanted for nothing and answered for little. The others called it paradise, a seemingly simple word for the euphoric feeling Darla and Ralph Angel had merely by existing. The world, or what they knew of it, was at their fingertips; filled to the brim with lavish food, drink, decoration, parties... 

And children.

Oh, so many children. Chubby babies with extra rolls and grasping hands. Wobbly toddlers with wide grins and messy hair. Gangly kids with freckles and scrambling feet. They raced and danced and sang and hollered with the greatest reckless abandon. To watch them was to suddenly know what wild winds felt like rushing through your hair. 

Whenever she had a moment to slip away, he could always find her with the children. He would often watch her as she watched them. She could sit so still, motionless as a fawn. Completely at peace, yet filled with curiosity and longing. Inevitably one would waddle over to her and maybe give her a hug, or sing, or ask her a question. It was always the best and worst part of her day.

“Do you think…” she would ask, trailing off and biting her lip.  
He never knew what to say. The answer was as unknowable and unspeakable as the question. 

 

It's easier to remember the dark, sometimes. 

 

He's above her, shaking her, but she can't move. Too tired, too slow, too far away. He's crying or screaming, she can't ever tell. She's tired. Her bones ache with lifetimes of strain. Nothing is familiar anymore except the constant longing for something she can’t remember. Why can't he let her disappear into the screeching, booming music and flashing lights and beautiful vials of whatever stupid name they’re plastering on their hours of disconnect?

The music fades, the darkness returns, and suddenly she can feel all of her skin and bones and blood pumping and her inner self is repeating every dark thought she’s ever had. It’s too much all at once and she begs Ralph Angel to make it stop. She wants to go home.

“Darla, you are home.”

Home isn't darkness. Home isn't empty. Home isn't fear. There’s a tear in her soul and a ringing in her ears and her skin feels too tight or too loose and she wants to scream but it won't change a damn thing. 

She struggles against him, but he holds her fast, whispering pleas and comforts into her hair. He doesn't know, can't know, why she does this. And she's tired, so tired, of trying to explain. It's easier to just let go of everything.

A memory tries to find her, but she's running from the past. It feels more like a dream, anyway. Spaces and lights and holding her breath and …

 

It's easier to remember the in-betweens, sometimes. 

 

The listless days observing Life and Creation from such a safe distance. Floating and gazing and humming softly to each other. The haze between sunrise and dawn, the whisper between twilight and night. They walked the line of in-betweens and swam beside the currents. It was peaceful, in the spaces around words and under songs. Behind the actually and before the perhaps.

This is where they fell in love. 

In the pauses between breaths. In the silence between teasing and laughter. In the uncertainty between knowing and not knowing. Not a single moment, but a thousand moments passed. A gradual, but inevitable, love. As sweeping and grand as it was intimate and unique. It was pure, and full of promises. It stretched on into infinity and started in the space between their souls. It was their own creation in a land where everything is gifted and granted. 

(This was where they hid.)

 

It's easier to forget the hiding, sometimes. 

 

The unrest in the people was palpable. Rumors and whispers were behind everyone's steps. Something was coming or it was already there or the tables had turned somewhere somehow. Everyone else either had an opinion or a question. 

Suddenly, there was talk of choices and consequences. No one here had ever made a contrary decision. They started to question if it was truly loyalty to the Father or simply obedience.

Darla and Ralph Angel attempted to ignore it. Blossoming love seemed to give them permission to turn from the conflict. Together, they assumed, they were unbreakable, unshakeable. They hid in their spaces, content to stay in their happy, peaceful bubble, filling their days with star gazing, wishing, dreaming, kissing...

Until they didn't. Until they couldn't. 

“We’ll be safer to stay out of it.”  
“What if this changes everything?”  
“I imagine it will. But we don't have to change with it.”  
“I don't think it works like that, Ralph Angel.”

(Things never work like that)

 

It was easier to forget the falling…

 

A son. A brother. A beloved. He was too rash, too forward, ~~too independent~~. He saw a different world, believed in a different path. With one last kiss he turned away, and embraced the skies between as he fell. 

It was too quiet, too fast. Something this momentous should have caused celestial turmoil or outrage or sorrow. But no one so much as moved as they all breathlessly watched him shine down into nothingness.

Darla and Ralph Angel stood silently as so many of their brothers and sisters tore their own wings from their bodies and followed, one by one. This, too, was a silent transaction. No one screamed in anguish as they ripped away their divinity. No one ran forward to beg them to stay. 

They fell. And fell. And hurled themselves into the unknown, away from grace, away from stale certainty. Withered down from ethereal hierarchy to streaming ribbons of light that twinkled into darkness.

As the last angel waved a final farewell before their plummet, Darla fell to her knees, choking on a sob. Never had she known such sorrow. Never had she felt this grief. Ralph Angel stood beside her, not knowing what to say or how to help her. 

(He never could bring himself to ask, and he never wanted to know: did she regret not following?)

(She never could bring herself to ask, but she had always wanted to know: did the others feel a part of their soul fall down with them?)

 

It was easier to forget…

 

“They’ll never allow it.”

She was ready. She’d been ready. There was fire in her eyes and waves crashing in her ears. 

“I don't care.”

He blinked. In a second, he knew. There was pleading in his eyes and the sounds of her plummeting screams howling in his ears.

“Darla, please. We can find another way.”

She stood close to him and took his hand. There was resolve in her eyes and only his plea in her ears.

“If anyone can make it, it's us.”

 

It's easier to remember a purpose.

 

Loud music. Laughter, yelling, groaning. Sickly sweet air that suffocates and beckons you to taste. Darla comes to gradually. She doesn't remember where she is, she barely remembers who she is. (Where does Star end and Darla begin?)

A dream, or a memory, she's seen it before but now it sears her mind. She can't escape the urgency, the brilliance of it. Warm light. Towering monuments and buildings made of nothingness. Laughter. Singing. Streaming comets. A boy.

Ralph Angel. She has to find him. Her pockets are empty, her purse is gone. She stumbles out the door of a small room in a dingy house. There's people everywhere. She doesn't know any of them. They don't even notice her. A cell phone finds its way under her feet, and it's a godsend. She calls. He answers.

“Ralph Angel?”  
“What do you want?”  
She pauses. The answer is there, on the tip of her tongue. But she doesn't know. ~~She can't remember.~~  
“Darla?”  
On the edge of the question, there's a softness. There's a need. There's a longing. On the edge of annoyance and impatience there's a hand outstretched. A plea. An unfinished story.  
“I need you.”

 

It's not the forgiveness that comes easily, it's the reunion. 

 

Hands, lips, teeth, legs. Crashing and melding and scraping and gliding. He cries into her bones, wanting to wash away her sickness. She lays him beneath her, needing to feel his support. 

There's fury, here, and sadness. She trembles and cries and wants to say… anything. But she can’t. Not yet. Missed phone calls, long nights, worry, fear, hesitation. He moves and gasps and watches her and wants to ask… something. But he won't. Not yet.

In between the unspoken and unasked, the past and the ~~past~~ present, there is passion. Romance. Promises and memories. And something between them, binding them, telling them to believe in the possibility of purpose. Softening, not ignoring, the blows and harsh words given and received. There is time for questions, for answers, for apologies, for relief. In the spaces they make for each other. 

 

It's easier to promise...

 

Standing on the edge, staring down. Seeing a million lives in motion. Knowing you’ll never be here again. 

Ralph Angel reaches out to take Darla’s hand. He places a kiss in it. A promise. Acceptance. 

“You ready?”

He closes his eyes and nods

Ralph Angel fell first. A burning comet racing its way to Earth, blazing a new unique path that is only for him. Darla watches as a single tear rolls down her cheek. It's beautiful, she thinks. Her body feels suddenly so weightless. Her arms raise on their own accord and she can almost hear the wind rushing by, so eager to let go.

“Wait.”

One word. Not a command, but strong enough to not be ignored. It's impossible to tell if it came from someone nearby or conjured in her head. She turns away from the ledge, her head held high, daring the heavens themselves to try and stop her.

He is not the Father, nor is he the Son. A simple man in robes with his arms outstretched to her. A messenger, perhaps. Her stance is defiant, but he does not press forward to her. 

“I know what you desire. And I can deliver it unto you.”

Darla hesitates. Who is this man to know what she wants? (Is her longing so strong he can read it in her eyes?)

“Ralph Angel can-”

“Perhaps. But I come offering you a chance to help another.”

He reaches down and moves his robes to the side. There's something behind him. Curly black hair, a small, trembling frame. 

 

Is it possible to remember a promise made in another life?

 

The day arrived like most had before and would again: Quietly. Unassuming. The sun rose behind dusty, pink clouds over farmlands. There may have been birds singing, or maybe it was just the old radio tuned to a spotty station. But Darla woke with a lightness to her body, an extra bounce in her step. She relished the butterflies in her stomach (or more likely wiggling toes), floating through the house, humming a familiar tune to herself. A single word pressed itself against her tongue and echoed through her mind. 

Purpose.

She doesn't remember when the pain started. It was as though she had never felt pain in her life, then suddenly it was all she had ever known. Cold, bright lights flew past her and she reached out a hand to find some kind of comfort. Ralph Angel was there. He was talking to her, trying to soothe her, but she could barely hear him. She was dreaming...or remembering…

“Take this child.”  
“I cannot guarantee he falls safely with me.”  
“Then he cannot fall. He will be given unto you.”  
“How will I know when he is coming?”  
“I will wake you. You will not be able to understand me, but I will send a vision of this place.”

Darla is screaming. She's holding onto whatever she can and trying to focus on the doctors and nurses and Ralph Angel. She is suddenly very aware of her small stature and weak muscles and fragile bones. The ringing in her ears is low, like a whisper, encouraging her and commending her. A promise. A purpose. 

A cry that is not her own, but so much a part of her. She's shaking and delirious but the doctors are smiling and Ralph Angel is pressing hard kisses to her pounding temples. A small, impossibly small, twisting, messy creature wrapped so delicately in a plain, blue blanket is placed in the crook of her arms. 

They're all talking, but she can't hear. His eyes can barely open, but he nestles as close as he can to her warmth. In her mind, she hears a sigh of relief, and the ringing is gone. It's just the three of them, really. Basking in each other’s love, wanting to stay in this new, wide open space of unfamiliar and instantaneous love forever. 

“Do you have a name picked out?” A nurse wants to know.

“Blue.” They say, in sync. 

(They never tell, and they know they're the only ones that can see the softest, faintest blue glow shining around his head.)


End file.
